Datebook: Thursday, January 24th & Friday, January 25th ~ 2008

One way skating parallels real life is that there are no ‘do overs’.

Our team finished in a respectable position but not with a final skate that was a true reflection of all the hard work they have put into the year. So there are regrets and mental replaying of the MeatLoaf song, “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad” but in the end it is a new dawn and a new day (no, I agree, you can’t just switch to Michael Buble like that).

It is now Friday and we have been here one week. Perhaps I am getting homesick and tired of the hotel menu and/or regretting that I will not see my son off tomorrow when he leaves for the start of his spring semester at college. Perhaps I am missing the dogs. Perhaps it is all the emotions of the week crashing together—the angst of the skaters as they perform and all the connections behind the scenes.

There were certainly tears aplenty yesterday after the Junior Free Dance. It is hard not to shed a few droplets when you see your own child rocked with the disappointment of not having a great performance. It was nerve-racking to watch the Hubbells and family as Keiffer struggled with the remnants of food poisoning that we all know is debilitating—and this on top of a season plagued with an injury. So there were shared tears that they were able to rise above the illness to deliver what we all know they are so capable of putting on the ice. It was emotional to watch the McKernan/Gilles clan after their fabulous skate—like any family the concept of sharing the joyful news was complicated by the fact that Tim’s dad is stationed in Iraq and “can’t come to the phone” so to speak. I guess this just brought home the fact that although this is very important to all of us, and we are passionate about it, it is certainly not the top spot in our lives. This is, of course, reserved for our families and how we support each other.

And so, just as skating parallels life, I think we all must at this point celebrate how lucky we are to have an extended “family” in ice dancing. We laugh for and at each other when the times are good. We cry for each other when blades slip and the ice is cold, when injuries thwart performances, when dreams are lost and won, or put on hold.

Yesterday, a dancer’s bootlace broke right before competition, and of course, another ice dance competitor offered a spare. This may not happen in the other disciplines—we know it doesn’t happen often, or enough, in the real world. And that is perhaps the sad difference in the comparisons; if life really modeled the spirit of ice-dancing the world would be certainly be in a better place.

And so when we leave in two days, I will take this factor with me and forget that I will also leave without knowing my “sleep number”—apparently all rooms but mine have the special mattresses and I keep hearing people in the elevator call out—“40, we have settled on 40 as our number”. I will leave without finding the spot in my room that offers a wireless internet connection—we were assured all rooms have it yet I have been unable to find it although I have explored the room with my laptop acting as a divining rod..

I guess I realized I was taking this too literally when I put the desk chair on top of the bed and tried to get an elevated signal near the ceiling.

There isn’t one in the bathtub either.

Mombo

Datebook: Wednesday, January 23rd ~ 2008

Today was just a practice day for us, so it should have been low-key and low stress.

It would have been if my daughter had not lost her jacket. By “lost” I mean she left it in the girl’s locker room at the Xcel Center. After completing some fine detective work—reminiscent of Peter Falk from Columbo (minus the cigar) the facts are that it was still on the bench last night after the last skater left the building (this from a volunteer who was checking the building for potential shuttle riders who was worried that a coat meant a person). It did not make its way to the lost and found of either the skating facilities or the Xcel Center.

I am considering running an ad in the local paper:

“Missing, xs blue team jacket. Last seen on a bench at the Xcel Center. Skater had too much in her hands (skate bag, clothing bag, dress bag, winter coat) and did not ask for help with carrying said items. Large Reward. Mother Grieving.”

I consoled myself by going to watch Senior CD Dance. This was a distraction for many reasons—the main one being it is hard to remain glum when listening to the Yankee Polka,

In a more reflective time I would ask where the Yankee Polka took birth—costuming would indicate the hills of Kentucky to the mountains of Nepal. My favorite color on the ice was that “Fab Blue” wore by Clare Farrell and Charlotte Maxwell—it was so vibrant it almost seemed to create its own dance. Lynn wore a second cousin color that was also striking and lively—the whole blue family hues captured the essence of the dance.

Emily and Evan are now in their element—senior level. It was a bit hard to actually “give them up” from junior, and I felt a bit like the mom of a departing freshman as I watched them take the first intro lap on the ice—You know they are prepared, and all packed, but you know you’ll miss them. They delivered a great “orientation” to Senior Dance with a 4th place finish and numbers in the 34.00s.

Tanith and Ben of course floated to first place and earned marks in the forties—raising the bar with OD-like scores for a CD.

Kim and Brent skated an incredible dance; huge pattern, deep edges, beautiful skills from beautiful people --and easily captured third.

Which brings us to the second place finishers. And I have a problem here. My daughter has asked me not to bring up Charlie White’s name because it makes it a bit awkward for her. She feels that my past reflections on this subject would put me in the classification of “freak” and that would render her a “freak” by her relationship to me,

“I can’t even talk to him now because he is probably thinking, “oh, this is the girl whose mother writes about me and conversations she has had with her friends about how cute I am.’”

“I think he knows that girls think he is cute, and I’m sure he is flattered by that.”

“But you can’t just say that, and have people read it.”

“Sweetheart I heard a whole new group of Novice girls swooning over him on Monday—just because he had complimented them on their dance. He is a real ambassador for the sport. And he is a gentleman—he let me on the bus ahead of him at the Xcel center.”

“He was probably just afraid to have you come up the stairs behind him.”

“I don’t know why you didn’t just offer him a seat when he got on the bus?”

“Maybe because he’s worried he should carry around some restraining orders—I think he would just like people to talk about how great he and Meryl skate.”

“Well, I thought the two subjects were connected—I mean I just heard you talking to….”

“MOM, just don’t say anything else about him—it’s embarrassing.”

So, I hope you’ll understand that in deference to my daughter’s wishes I can only say that Meryl and Charlie did get second in the CD today and they both skated great.

PS—if you see an XS Team USA jacket please take it the hotel desk for me…

Mombo

Datebook: Tuesday, January 22nd ~ 2008

The novice events are over—and what an.. achievement for ice dancing that there is more talent than medals.

The field of competitors was reduced by one team due to a concussion suffered by Liz Lewis in the days prior to leaving for nationals. She and partner Baxter Burbank were there last night to support fellow Novice dancers go for the gold—cheering and ringing the cowbell for the other eleven teams. We have often speculated there should be some special awards given out at these events--selected by the competitors perhaps. If this were the case I know Baxter and Liz would get a sportsmanship award for again showing the heart of Ice Dancing for their support and cheer for others while enduring the disappointment of not being able to personally exhibit what they have worked 12 months to perfect.

Katie Wyble and Justin Morrow could also get some creative award for how to compete with the added burden of a mishap with a rebellious headband. This made me wonder if we should hold some type of “Gladiator” games where skaters are presented with a set of skating challenges not encountered in practice sessions. This could include costumes that become entangle, sleeves caught in the sideboards, birds in the rafters that “litter” the ice. It might come in handy…

Although we had a late night practice—my balloon-a-gram worked, we went to bed by midnight. That should have been the start of a good night’s sleep with a late morning. But, before turning out the bathroom light I flushed the toilet.

And it kept flushing.

No matter how many jiggles or pushing or pulling on the handle could stop the Herculean flush occurring in the American Standard.

After five minutes of listening to what sounded like an air flight flush I called the front desk and they told me they would send the plumber up “right away”.

I decided I could live in a hotel permanently when he arrived in five minutes—where do you get service like that?

After going for more tools, “Stan” had the plumbing restored to the soundless wonder in 45 minutes.

After locking the security bolt on the room door, I paused at the bathroom for a moment—after listening to all that water run for forty-five minutes I gave serious consideration to—

“Don’t even think about it,” my daughter called from under the covers!

And so I went to bed waterlogged on the mind and body.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, January 21st ~ 2008

Today we had a “light dusting”. At home, this means it will snow, but it won’t really stick. Apparently in the Twin Cities this means how my sister salts French fries—a complete covering until the original surface is concealed. The difference is here you then deep freeze it to make it interesting.

This wouldn’t normally bother me, since we are shuttled from the hotel to the arena, and since I found my way through the skywalks that also go underground into tunnels which I assume are like Meercat Manor, as we keep popping up at various locations around the city. No, a light dusting wouldn’t bother me except my coach decided to get ice time at another rink at 10:30 tonight. This is 30 minutes from the hotel, on ice-crusted roads that I do not know, in a rental car I don’t know, and he asked me to drive the kids and a coach there.

I’m not sure how I won this duty—I am a skating parent and therefore I guess on the surface I have lost all signs of rational judgment. I suppose he has heard the rumors that I was a police officer for fifteen years, but I worked undercover and my street ID was a woman afraid to drive in bad weather—this was pretty effective because I didn’t have to put much into the act. In my real life at home I own a SUV and an all wheel drive vehicle so why would I enlist being the chauffeur of a Dodge minivan on what looks like a luge track instead of an interstate highway?

And this on top of a day of intense competition.

And while it is true I did not compete, I never-the-less felt each step of that waltz. Even if it didn’t really help, I mentally pushed through every loop to keep that pattern tight. I was a bit out of breath when it was over and felt a slightly light-headed. Thankfully Joan Branella offered a smelling salts of sorts—the promise of fine coffee-- so I didn’t have to pull out my inhaler.

So I am sitting here with the age-old question that all skating parents ask at one time or another. Is it ever possible to just say “no” in ice skating, or in all things ice-skating related? I know I opened my mouth to say “No, that just doesn’t make sense” but something else comes out instead—like some ice skating muse is lip-synching for me, echoes of Ashley Simpson.

I know I should just “waltz” over to our coach and say, “No, I’m not driving that mobile bobsled on ice covered roads that I don’t know”.

But I’m afraid I will open my mouth and actually volunteer to take a bevy of other skaters for an even later session.

Maybe I’ll just text message him, or send a balloon-a-gram.

Mombo

Datebook: Sunday, January 20th ~ 2008

Every competition is different. Every venue has its own culture.

We packed (by we I mean she) heavily for this trip. Perhaps she didn’t need to pack ten black shirts, but she did. Perhaps she didn’t need to pack a sweater shaver, but she did. Perhaps she didn’t need to pack eight schoolbooks, because chances are she won’t open any until the flight home—but I am looking at a Business Stat text, a Theology book, an Annotated Bible, a macro economics notebook—the list goes on, stacked on the nightstand.

But, she did select some very special gifts to throw on the ice to her friends. And she can’t. This venue has a policy that all stuffed animals must be purchased at the arena, and at this point the pickings are slim. No Aardvarks, or light-up frogs to be found. No “more cowbell” T-shirts, or illuminated Frisbees.

And if we can’t throw them, we’ll have to take them home. Since we didn’t plan for this snafu, we are acting like bootleggers trying to sneak homemade hooch past the revenuers.

We may not be proud of the plan, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The bag check at the door involves a quick open of the purse or skating bag, and skim and feel on the top layers, and an “Okay, thanks ma’am”.

We have discovered that a feminine hygiene package on top eliminates any further inspection—so contraband toys and gifts can be secreted into the Excel Center for the good of the cause.

The cause being the space needed in the suitcase for the trip home.

Mombo

Datebook: Saturday, January 20th ~ 2008

It is days like this that I have a bone to pick with all the southern skating clubs.

It is days like this, when I arrive from typical winter climate, 25 degrees, to sub-zero weather, really. It is minus 14 and with the wind chill, it is minus 30 degrees. This is a beautiful city, and we have learned that many people are moving here from across the country, but still, I had to ask our shuttle driver, what made you come here two years ago—what did you google to come up with this—the coldest place in the continental United States with great shopping? It is cold here. The weather channel advises that frostbite can begin within seconds of exposure.

So, southern clubs, why aren’t you bidding on hosting Nationals? Let’s review, St. Paul, Spokane, St. Louis (okay, not that cold!) Portland. Next year Cleveland. San Diego, where are you? Honolulu—come on. Miami—how about some ice, no more vice. I hear stories from the long timers of the glory days of Dallas where skaters packed sunscreen and flip-flops instead of Uggs, long underwear and full length down jackets.

I think if some of the southern clubs set up donation jars here, we would fill them up this year with out mittened hands.

We ventured out the Walgreens, 3 blocks from the hotel and returned with scarves wrapped around our faces with cans of Static Guard and toothpaste (you always forget something!) We made inquires about going to the Mall of America—two methods of travel—a cab for about 25.00 or a direct bus for 2.00 a person. The bus stop was two blocks away. I’m sure my son, in Calculus III could set up this formula to justify the bus, or the various accountants in the crowd would point out the obvious savings—but two blocks to the bus stop versus a cab at the door—we cruised in a Green Line cab.

Our mission in the MOA was to obtain earmuffs. Ones that won’t mess up the hair. In between, we ogled the roller coasters, Bubba Shrimp restaurant, Aquarium, and then discovered a Bloomingdales with no sales tax. This resulted in the purchase of two pair of Joe’s Jeans—one pair is “dressy’ one pair is “casual”—who knew? Our earmuff purchase came down to the selection of Burberry (175.00), Uggs (75.00) and Bloomingdale’s (30.00). At this point my daughter became thrifty and went with the store brand.

“It’s not like I will wear them again after this week—I’m not planning a visit to Greenland anytime soon.”

I wish she would have planned this way with the jeans—I mean jeans are by nature casual—if you need something dressy, well, you could just wear, I don’t know, pants—black pants.

My daughter looks at me with something akin to pity when I suggest this. I suspect it is much like how I look at my mom when I try to get her to use email or look for something on line.

We came back in-time for the first practice events. The arena is fabulous and for a short time it was ours—the ice dancers and entourage, With our small crowd, it was cavernous.

All the skaters looked at home out on the ice.

And of course, they should. They are home out there.

Mombo

Datebook: Friday, January 18th ~ 2008

Travel Day.

Finally!

The long awaited day has arrived. I guess it just seems longer because I got up at 4:00 am—not because we are leaving early, our flight is at 5:30 tonight—I just wanted to be up and ready—starting the day--on our way so to speak.

The car is looking a bit Beverly Hillbillyish—there are items smushed against the back windows and we seem to have everything but the rocking chair tied on top. I have managed to get all of my gear in one large suitcase. My daughter has one gianormus suitcase, a roll bag, two carry-ons (one with her costumes and one with her school books—yes, her college went back for the semester on Monday! for each of us to carry) and “my” second piece of luggage, a roll bag containing her shoes and toiletries. That’s right, skater girl has five bags, mom of skater girl has one bag.

Things would be easier if we could just go, get on the plane, begin the trip, fly away. But we can’t. I have to work part of the day and my daughter has two classes this morning and she is skating before and after. This means we have to pack her skates last while they are still warm from her feet. In an act of caution I Fed-Exed her “old” skates to the Crown Plaza on Monday for 11.65. I’m not sure why I did this, we have a direct flight so if her packed skates don’t arrive, chances are we won’t either, but it seemed like a good idea, or at least “something to do”. Heaven forbid she would have to wear those relics from the past—they look like a homeless person wore them for five years and then discarded them. Nancy Kerrigan, during a commentary, regaled their condition---I wanted to email her an answer, instead of a question at icenetwork and explain—we ordered new skates six to eight months before, just like we do every year—we’re doing the best that we can until the elves make the new ones!

Her new skates arrived three weeks after sectionals and I saw them last week when she skated in a send-off show—they look like she uses a weed-wacker on them—they are cut up and scarred—and the idea of girls wearing white skates and boys wearing black skates—well it is just so High School Graduation!—the black always rubs off on the white. I am worried that our bags may be confiscated for suspicious containers—we have finger nail polish remover, turpentine, and athletic shoe polish (for genuine leather!) packed in plastic bags to clean them right before competition.

It will be easier to get our bags to check-in though—my husband is driving us to the airport instead of parking at the “Park Eight Miles from the Airport and take the Shuttle” lot. This is because last year when we returned there was a foot of snow on my car and the shuttle just stops and drops. I actually cleaned off the car next to mine (with my hand) before I realized my error.

We should get to the hotel in time to get our credentials, but I’m hoping we can wait until morning—when we can get a little rest and take some of the stress signs out of my face. Every year the volunteers are so nice. My daughter goes first and then I follow—they look at her, Pantene ad-like hair, to me with my Howard Sternish do. They look at her-- size zero and then to me--well let’s just say getting to a size ten will be as likely as Mombo winning a Pulitzer Prize.

They smile and commiserate. “Having a skater in the family is a real challenge.”

So true I think now as I look at our mountain of luggage.

I catch my daughter’s eye as she comes down the steps. “How many purses did you pack?”

She hesitates. “Why do you ask? Do you need to borrow one?”

I shake my head and then stop; this is something my mother would do. I smile and say instead, “Are you ready?”

She smiles back and I realize it isn’t really that challenging.

“Let’s get this show on the road.”

Mombo

Datebook: Thursday, January 17th ~ 2008

I am having a bit trouble with my mental preparation on this eve of our travel day.

It is not the packing, or planning that went into packing—(Okay, it works out that I am taking five pair of black pants, this makes the shoe selection easier but some people might be thinking I am a Johnny Cash fan by the end of the week). It is not the print-outs of schedules, and tickets, and confirmation numbers. It is not the reading assortment selection from “beach reads” to classic mystery to nonfiction self-improvement (this gave me the writing idea of “Who Moved My Skate”?).

No, the problem is, ten days is a long time to be away from the ones you love.

Let’s face it. We get used to waking to a sweet kiss of greeting, and having a warm body waiting when we come home at night.

Yes, it’s hard to leave the dogs.

Oh, I know my husband will feed them, and play with them, but he probably won’t put fresh ice cubes in their water bowls, or make little tent havens for them at bedtime out of the comforter.

He’s also caught on that I call during the day when he is working and talk to them before the message machine kicks on.

“You know I can see the numbers of the last twenty callers. And they’re all you.”

“I get confused with the time change and think you might be home.” I bluff unsuccessfully.

“Some people might think that it’s…well…a bit unusual to call to talk to the dog.”

“I don’t call to talk to the dog. I don’t expect them to answer—I just don’t want them to think I’ve forgotten about them.’

My husband makes that funny face where he is a composite; part Stan Laurel and part Dane Cook, with the big eyes and hunched eyebrows.

“Why did you put those picture frames on the bottom shelf—“ he asks, “It almost looks like you’re putting them at eye-level, well, eye-level for a fox terrier.”

“I’m just using some Feng Shui techniques—it draws your visual line down”

“I think it is more of a “Fox Shui” move and she is going to chew the corner off your White Face mountain backdrop.”

I sigh because I know I won’t be able to talk about Izzy, and missing Izzy, with my daughter in St. Paul.

She is not an Izzy fan.

My daughter likes dogs, but she likes ones that keep their four feet on the ground and are pretty much in the “Mellow” group. She wanted a dachshund, or a pug, or a sweet Boston Terrier like Kevin and Brooke share.

She does not like the Terrorier, who she describes as a hair-shedding bully, which is a bit harsh—Izzy is more of a bouncer, like Tigger

“You should be glad to get away from her for a week. Maybe your bruises will heal now.”

A week in Minnesota would be restful and enjoyable if it weren’t for all the nerves and angst about the actual competition. And the missing the dog part.

“Suppose,” I query my husband, “Suppose I send Izzy a post card from St. Paul. Would you read it to her?”

My husband shakes his head and murmurs something about zamboni fumes, but he won’t repeat it.

I guess I’ll just send it first class to make sure it gets here before I come home.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, January 14th ~ 2008

We are now at the open suitcase stage of packing for the big event.

This should be a simple matter, but of course, like most things in the world of skating, it is not.

To start with, my daughter just had a case of the dreaded “virus”; the one that seems to be sweeping the country and has a one-week incubation period and a four-day shelf life. Although I am glad she had her toilet hugging experience at home and not at Nationals, I have completed the math and I seem to be in the crosshairs for next week, seemingly just as our Northwest flight lands in St. Paul.

The potential for being room-bound has to come into play with my plans for packing. I am bound by the matrix of practicality to pack a few more sets of flannel cowboy pajamas—just in case.

And, in a modern twist of Dickens’ Ghosts of Nationals past, I am searching for a “Magic Force Field” to fold and tuck between my trouser socks and disposable razors. Two Ghosts of Nationals past ago, my daughter woke on competition morning to an even more hostile mutant virus than the one she just sweated out. The fact that she skated is still under consideration for Ripley’s Believe It of Not—the fact that they had two deductions for lifts being too long because she couldn’t let go was evident to all who watched the seemingly 40-hour free-dance. Well, maybe it only seemed that long to me.

Anyway, last Ghost of Nationals past, my daughter and her partner had a hard fall in practice. The kind of fall where you think the paramedics are going to say something like, “Ma’am, here is your daughter, and here is her leg.” Through some supreme medical skill and perhaps divine intervention, she was able to skate with a little less mobility and a bruise the size of Montana on her thigh.

So, I think you understand that in my weaker moments I am thinking, “What fresh hell do you have awaiting me this year, Nationals of the Present?” A Magic Force Field is highly desirable, or at least one of those boundary circuits, I don’t know, I guess it could work like an invisible dog fence—something to keep all of the bad vibes away—no illnesses, no falls, no judges sneezing and missing a spectacular level four lift that the replay camera fails to pick up.

Another problem with packing is, well, I can’t really grasp the weather in St. Paul. Today, at my home, it was 47 degrees. In St. Paul, the weather was reported at minus 14.

That’s really not a temperature to the majority of folks going to Nationals. Oh, I guess that might sound a bit balmy to folks who come from Alaska, like Baxter Burbank and his folks, of from North Dakota, like Chase Fishpaw and the family Fishpaw. And I suppose Daphne, in Maine, is also used to this deep freeze.

But most of us are not. To be honest, I spend most of the winter without even needing to button or zip my coat. I use a scarf and gloves for about three weeks of the winter season.

So, how do you pack for this type of climate? It seems to me if I layer everything I bring in my suitcase, I will still not be warm. My winter coats do not have a chill rating like sub-artic sleeping bags. In my normal world, wool and cashmere have seemed sufficient to keep my blood from freezing. I am also now in the quest of a hat that is said to be essential for containing body heat—I would normally not want to risk having “hat hair” or “static head” but the fear of even colder artic blasts have sent me to “Sunny’s Surplus” in search of a bank robber type full-face sweater-knit model—true, I will try to color coordinate, but in the end I will just take what they have.

So, good-luck with packing—let me know if you find any of these elusive items.

I’m also told that a filled flask is also a life-saver when you factor in the wind chill index….

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, January 7th ~ 2008

Today I realized I have a problem.

I’m not going to go as far as call it an addiction.

Other would disagree, I know, especially those who have tried to wean me away and offer inferior substitutions. My epiphany of comprehension came at six am when I realized that my daughter had not only borrowed my car for the week while hers is being serviced, but that I had left my bag on the back seat. The bag that houses my DayRunner.

When I say DayRunner, picture rich, burgundy, Corinthian leather divided by well-used tabs that denote a monthly calendar, a weekly calendar, notes, contacts, and memos. Imagine the plastic sleeves that hold business cards, a fifth grade book mark drawn by my son eight years ago, a note from my then five-year old daughter using phonetic stretch spelling to express how happy she was that the “pillgrams ate terkey wth the Neightves se we culd be a happy famly”. Envision an envelope that holds every ticket stub since 1984—these range from Spamelot to Toby Keith to a Ravens-Steeler game.

This is the book of life to me.

I have all of my appointments on the monthly sheets and all of my notes and comments on the weekly pages.

I know what you’re thinking.

Many people have moved into the current era and have Trios, Blackberries, or one of the other electronic devices that require the user to record data by using an enlarged toothpick-like instrument. The disciples of this mode would argue that these compact instruments hold limitless information in a neat and easily accessible manner.

I’ll concede this point although this style is no more for me than wearing translucent plastic platform heels. I need to be able to “flip” and write in pencil, pen or marker. I need to highlight with a color that stands out, not with a slightly lighter shade of gray; I need to be able to see the boldness of Lemon Yellow or Prom Pink.

So today I am without my planner. I do not have access to my username and passwords for approximately 50 on-line sites that range from my United air miles to Shop Bop to my FSU account. I cannot look back to the summer to see the total of my Lake Placid Golden Arrow hotel bill or the date I had my hair colored, ah, infused with highlights, or how many core strengthening sessions my daughter had with her trainer in October.

To be sure, there will be some who might gloat at my dependence on an archaic method of record keeping. They might try to compare my little notebook as the equivalent of a slide rule against the power of a calculator but I would beg to differ.

All of the electronic data recording devices are missing the power and sensation of holding an artifact in your hand. There is something uplifting about holding an original document and savoring the meaning and complexities of the written word. As opposed to a typed word, or, to be more specific, a stylused word.

My daughter arrived at her apartment to discover my bag of bullion in the back of her car and called to utter the words I dreaded.

“UH-OH, I have your book.”

Since I had already made the discovery and practiced saying the words without much of an inflection in my voice, she was almost convinced.

“That’s okay. I don’t really need it”. Perhaps she heard the paper bag I had been breathing into crinkle over the phone.

“Mom, I can drive it back home or meet you half-way.”

“No, don’t be silly. I can wait until this week-end. It’s only six days.”

“I could Fed-Ex it to you tomorrow and you would have it Wednesday.”

I consider this for a moment and then discard the idea. Ever since the movie “Castaway” I have not been too sure that every package makes it to its destination.

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just wait.” I hoped she thought the cracking in my voice was just from the portable phone.

“Well…if you’re sure.”

“It will be fine, it will be okay…” I repeat this as a mantra to myself and to her and then I ask her for one favor. “Would you please take it inside and then mark the days off each day—use a dark blue marker, and mark left to right—one line.”

She hesitates for only a moment and then says, “Sure, no problem” and I know I have given her fodder for the zamboni time the next day.

I would make a note of that in my DayRunner if I had it in hand.

Mombo